There’s a big question that comes up a lot: what's the proper way for me to regard myself within “we”?

This idea of “we” is at the core of Arbinger's work, clearly explained in the last episode. If you haven’t listened to that episode, pause this one, go back, and start there.

One thing we teach all the time: “You count like I count.” But do we really believe that? Do we really regard ourselves as someone we have responsibility for? Would we let someone else pay attention to their own feelings? Would we think it’s a terrible idea for them to share that with us?

Some things we do to eliminate our pain make it worse, some make it better. Sometimes we ignore it or distract ourselves. We hide it from other people—but is that going to strengthen “we”? We’ve got this problem of hidden pain. How do you know when it’s time to disclose, share, or connect? What’s been your experience?

Participant:

I’ve had the fortune of facilitating for Arbinger for a number of years. Last year, I was headed out of town for a workshop. My 14-year-old was having a side conversation with my wife—he seemed a little out of sorts. She said, “He wants to tell you something. He’s my especially honest boy. He can’t hold anything in.” He says, “Dad, I just had to tell you this—that I like it when you’re here, but I like it a lot when you’re gone.”

I was about to go facilitate this material, and the first half of the day I felt like a fraud. Here I am projecting this image, teaching this material, feeling totally alone in a room of people. I’m not suggesting that airing your laundry is the solution. But in that moment, I felt I needed to share what had happened. The principle here is how sharing made me feel immediately connected to people in the room. That fundamentally changed how I felt about myself, and I was able to go forward even though I wasn’t living it perfectly.

A father approached me afterward and said, “Thanks for sharing that. I don’t know that I could appreciate this stuff until you shared that example. I’m now seeing things I can do differently.”

McKinlay:

When we’re not seeing things as they truly are, we start to believe the lie that holding on to pain is a gift we give for the sake of the group. We act out the part, thinking, “I don’t have it all together.” We tend to withdraw from “we,” thinking we’re too broken to belong, so we remove ourselves, hoping to be fixed and worthy to return. We take ourselves away from the very medicine we need.

Being complete, perfect, or enough is not a condition for being part of the body. We obsess over, “Am I enough?” Hoping to relieve that feeling of emptiness or not belonging. What if you discover that as an individual, no, I’m not enough—but we are enough.

Nate:

You asked earlier how you know if you’ve successfully hidden your pain—my answer was: you’re lonely. That’s how you know. It gives me pause to think about all the ways I’m disconnecting from bodies in my life where I could be a member.

We have to say, “I am lonely and I don’t know what to do about it.” Sometimes we don’t make the call, thinking, “How can they fix it? They can’t.” But just to connect—to say, “I don’t know what to do.” And if you’re on the other end, you don’t have to fix it—just be there. Be there in all your limitation, frailty, brokenness. Just show up.

Betsy:

I remember visiting family in California for my dad’s 50th college reunion. I secretly hoped his friends would bring their single sons, but that didn't happen—it was just me and dad’s friends, my sister, her husband. Our last night, we had sushi in Santa Barbara—amazing place, best time.

Suddenly, my brother-in-law started telling me about taking my sister to Italy. All of a sudden, I just felt envy. I made a joke—“Waiter, can I have another drink?” But inside, I was so envious. I want someone. I want to go on adventures like that. I take care of myself, but sometimes you want someone to take care of you.

I talked to a woman from Arbinger about it—so envious and mad at myself for being envious, guilty for feeling it. She helped me see I didn’t acknowledge my pain.

I went from jealousy to anger at myself for feeling it. She said, “Betsy, that moment was a gift. It shows you the depth of your longing.” I have to name my pain if I want to connect with others. We can lose ourselves in work or busyness or going out with friends, but to share it, I have to put my hand over my heart and say, “I’m sad. I long for something I don’t have right now.” That’s part of unbecoming the person we never were—the narrative that good people don’t feel jealousy. But they do—people with healthy relationships feel those things and wrestle with them. Without that friction, there’s no spark or light.

My friend said, “I hope someday you can tell your sister and brother-in-law that story.” I haven’t yet—they have no idea. She said, “I hope you can invite them into that pain.” That thought had never occurred to me.

McKinlay:

I reached out to Betsy—three years later—to see if she remembered the story she told in that breakout session. She did. I asked if she’d told her brother-in-law and sister; she hadn’t, but she’s now closer to feeling ready to have that conversation.

Why hasn’t it felt like she could share it? No particular reason; it just felt hard. Sometimes, struggles ebb and flow—we think they're healed and then the pain returns as unmet desires. It might not have felt healed enough to have the conversation yet.

McKinlay:

Your story stood out most to me, Betsy. I’m younger than you, but this is also my story—an unmet desire I have, something I long for. All my close friends are married, many have children; there’s a constant reminder of what I care about but don’t have.

Betsy:

One of the most important lessons from acknowledging my envy is seeing what’s underneath it. It’s so important to acknowledge it to ourselves and to others—there’s a lot of connection and fulfillment in that, when we feel comfortable to do so.

McKinlay:

When Betsy said, “when we feel comfortable to do so,” I thought of times when connection was only possible because I shared what was uncomfortable. Had I waited until the pain had passed, I’d have missed the chance to connect. Sharing the pain while in it is the conduit for connection.

I wondered if Betsy had other experiences like this. She said, “Right now, I’m going through the pain of a career chapter coming to a close—leaving a professional home of 13 years. Even though it was my decision to leave, I felt lonely and lost.” It's so hard to reach out to people when you’re in that place.

An executive at her company left, shared a vulnerable post about starting a business and feeling the void. Betsy “liked” her post; that was it. The executive noticed, reached out, and they had coffee, talking honestly about feeling lost professionally.

Betsy said it’s easier to connect with others who are also going through it. Harder to call friends who have what she longs for to say she’s in pain. Easier to reach out when you sense someone is walking your path. But just because someone has something you want doesn't mean they don't struggle. When we hold back our pain, we miss the chance to connect and discover their pain, too.

Betsy struggles to share her pain with people who have what she wants—their situation intensifies her pain.

Betsy:

If you ask why I haven’t talked to them, the honest answer is I still deal with those feelings—envy, jealousy—not always, but still. This conversation challenges me to consider that maybe the courageous thing is to have the conversation even while I'm still struggling with those things. It’s hard to say, “Hi, I’m jealous of you.” But you’re challenging me to consider what it could look like.

McKinlay:

How do you think your sister and brother-in-law would respond?

Betsy:

I think they'd be incredibly loving and gracious. I know I'm the one making it hard. They’d respond with love and hugs. That's who they are. That’s the relationship they want: one where I can tell them I’m hurting, even when they're part of it.

My sister even wrote a book called “A Spade a Spade”—just be honest, don't pretend.

I know that's the kind of relationship they want. They probably already know how I feel.

McKinlay:

My best friend got married two years ago—my last close friend to marry. I thought it would be easy, but it was the hardest. It rocked me. I stopped talking to her except about wedding planning—and after those conversations, I’d often cry. Once, she asked how I was doing, and I just brushed it off. For months, I thought the friendship was dying, that once she got married, I’d lose her. That pain was on top of everything.

Finally, I realized I might as well tell her the truth. I said, “Linds, I am struggling. I’m so sad. I thought I’d be fine, but this is really hard. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to think I’m not happy for you, or that you can’t share your excitement with me. I want you to, but I also want these things.”

She said, “I know. I’ve also been sad because I know you, and you’ve distanced yourself. I’ve wanted to be connected and have felt like I’m losing a friend. I don’t want to lose you.”

We cried together, and then we could be friends again, because it wasn’t something I was hiding and she wasn’t able to be a friend because I wouldn’t let her. The hardest part was not sharing it.

Your sister and brother-in-law sound like Lindsay—true friends. They’d probably be grateful. It would invite new closeness.

Our relationships are literally the most important things in our lives. Letting a fracture compound—when we don’t know what the future holds—stepping into vulnerability and courage is so important.

As I told Betsy, I hadn’t planned to share my story with her. But her honesty invited me to connect with her. That’s the beauty of people who share—they invite us to move past discomfort and connect through pain to create the connection we crave. And that’s what Betsy is choosing to do with her sister and brother-in-law.

Here’s her message, just a few days after our conversation:

Betsy:

Hey, McKinlay. After we talked, even though I haven’t had a formal sit-down with my sister and brother-in-law, I did decide to reach out and ask if I could spend Christmas with them. They’d said earlier this year, “You’re always welcome to be with us.” As the holidays approached, and after we talked, I thought this might be the right next move. I’m really excited about it. Beyond that, more will be revealed.

McKinlay:

From the way Betsy said this, it sounds like spending the holidays with her sister and brother-in-law isn’t something she would normally do. Even though she’s close to them, being with them can deepen her pain. Yet Betsy is choosing to connect through her pain because she wants that kind of relationship. When I’ve made the same choice, connecting through the pain doesn’t make it disappear, but it lessens or even eliminates the loneliness—because I’m no longer afraid of being seen. In that honesty, I gain someone who can help me carry it. Sometimes, I’m invited to help them carry their pain, too. That being with each other in this sincere, reciprocal human way is what it means to be part of “we.”

Gifts come to us indirectly—passed hand to hand in a figurative circle. The thing I need will usually come through someone else until it reaches me. That passing strengthens the hoop.

The whole idea of “we” is one rule: don’t be the one to weaken the hoop. Is this move going to strengthen the hoop? Is that going to strengthen “we”? Our tendency to isolate is learned. The tendency to be together is not—we’re born that way.

Joining lives is a process of unbecoming who you never were.

Our humanity lives in the space between us. Who we are is who we are together. When we recognize that truth, even pain becomes an invitation—to connect, to heal, and to lead differently.

Leading Outward is produced by the Arbinger Institute. To have a conversation about transforming your leaders and organization, schedule a complimentary strategy session at arbinger.com. Whatever came to mind as you listened—a conversation you’ve been putting off, feedback or an action that needs to be taken—don’t wait. Take that step, because that’s how change starts.